


Shrinking Violet

by settledownfrohike



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 04:14:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16032761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/settledownfrohike/pseuds/settledownfrohike
Summary: Late to the game as always!! My submission for @xfpornbattle . I was given an unsexy prompt by @contrivedcoincidences6, my episode being Excelsis Dei, and I’ll be honest, it was *extremely* hard to feel anything resembling smutty after watching it, but I think that was the point. ;) But! I was able to pull prompts 195(dominant Scully) and 38 (Mulder watched Scully have one-night stands for years before making his move) and try to make something work. I do strongly advise re-watching it before you read if, like me, you haven’t in a while.My eternal gratitude to @lepus-arcticus for going easy on me and making my first beta experience lovely and pain free! <3 If you see any spelling or grammar mistakes at this point it’s from my latest hurried edit and no reflection on her skills at all.  And thank you to Idris Elba, for being, well, Idris Elba. ;)





	Shrinking Violet

I don’t know how to explain it, but it has something to do with those pills.’

An unsubstantiated solution to the substantiated crime. That was her report in a nutshell.

Thanks, Mulder.

She’s spent the last 5 hours turning that crude statement into an official report, and to say she is tired is an understatement. To make matters worse, Mulder seems to be finding any excuse to stay in the office with her. She understands the fact that he was technically her superior, but she doesn’t literally need supervision, for Christ’s sake. He just keeps hovering around her, just outside of her periphery, like a dog circling a dinner table. Rummaging through cabinets, flipping through files, making much ado about absolutely nothing. It’s incredibly annoying, but at this point she doesn’t have the energy to analyze or address it.

She’s been in the same clothes for close to 18 hours now, and just wants her shower and her bed, in that order. She packs her briefcase and watches from the corner of her eye to see if he does the same. He doesn’t even look up. It isn’t until she is halfway out of the door that he even bothers to speak.

“Hey, Scully.”

She turns, her escape thwarted, and regards him with a blank expression, save one raised brow.

“S’good work. This case I mean….I’m glad you pushed it.”

An unexpected wave of rage paralyzes her senses, and for a moment, a rehearsed tirade about his premature dismissal of their victim’s case and its similarities to her own experience plays out in her mind. How it could have so easily been her pleading for someone to validate what her body knows, but what no one can prove, all of the physical evidence that would hold up in a court of law having been erased, her chance at justice stolen, along with a good bit of faith in the system she works for. It lodges in her throat, that she’s disappointed in him, maybe for the first time.

She actually heard her herself pleading with him to continue to pursue this case, and the memory makes her cringe. Her abduction has her unwillingly humbled, punished for the company she’s chosen to keep, and she hates it. If she’s being punished, she’d might as well commit a crime befitting. Ahab once grounded her for a month after she came in smelling of cigarettes she hadn’t smoked. It’d felt righteous then, on the roof at 3am, choking on an entire pack of her mother’s Virginia Slims. Bad decisions might as well be her own. They’d damn well better be.

She doesn’t know herself anymore. The body in the mirror at home is softer than it used to be, it slouches with memories of invasion and abuse. This body betrays her. It keeps secrets now. It’s confusing to feel patronized by one’s own mind. She appreciates the work keeping her busy, and she hoped coming back as quickly as possible would be the first step in feeling whole again. But she’s not anywhere close to restored. Her edges feel tattered and stitched poorly together, and though her reflection may not show it, she’s a Raggedy Ann version of her former self. She wants her body back, her memories back, and her autonomy back.

To let him know these things would show weakness. So instead, she smiles tightly and mumbles some platitude about teamwork or partnership and slips out. If she makes it to the garage fast enough, he won’t have time to wrap up this charade, gather his own things, and follow her home. Again. She’d rather him pull the big brother act when he thinks she’s not looking.

—————————————————-

At the third stop light before the freeway, a Holiday Inn sign reads, “$1 MRGRTAS” and the rebel in her smiles. He won’t follow her in here, and if he does, she’ll hopefully be drunk enough to say what’s on her mind. She’s not ready to be at home alone with those thoughts just yet.

Two hours later, she’s four deep and enjoying her umpteenth cigarette with relish, her nose is pleasantly numb, and her thoughts about her partner are turning maudlin. He’s trying, she reckons. She knows he cares deeply for her. He likes to keep her close, like a lucky rabbit’s foot or some other talisman, rattling around in his pocket with the loose change, carelessly cherished. She remembers a time, not so long ago when she’d been starry-eyed and school-girl smitten with her new partner, with his impossibly good looks and unreachable genius. And for a time, they’d sparked against each other like flint meeting a match. For a time, it’d felt like maybe he’d felt something too. Her disappearance has exposed weakness in them both, she supposes. Her need to push against support instead of leaning into it, and his inability to offer any outright, for fear of not deserving the trust. This thought feels like something resembling forgiveness, and, her anger having dissipated, she’s thinking seriously about paying her tab and calling a taxi. But then, an impossibly rich baritone asks if the seat next to her is taken.

The accent is British, and his suit is expensive. He fits in here about as well as she does. He orders Glenlivet, neat. The tequila has her feeling loose limbed and mischievous, so after a few moments of quiet companionship, she slips off her jacket to reveal the pale blue silk shell underneath, just to see what might happen. Her larger breasts stretch against the fine fabric, and if the sensation is unfamiliar and discomfiting, his side glance is not. She swallows any lingering traces of self doubt down with a swish of salt and cheap mix. The game is afoot, and the rush of adrenaline to her brain at her prowess is euphoric. She wants more of this kind of puissance, achieved cheaply, but effective nonetheless. 

“You’re not singing tonight?” He nods towards the empty stage, floating lights and karaoke machine at the corner of the bar, unused, thankfully. 

“Not tonight,” she smiles into her plastic tumbler, “too much competition.” His resulting chuckle is deep and dizzying. Afoot, indeed.

She turns her head and is met with a very handsome smile with a face to match, basset-hound eyes and skin the color of strong espresso. His beard is well kept, and only serves to highlight his strong jawline, and sumptuous mouth. The closely tailored suit is doing nothing to hide the brutish build underneath. But he carries it with such elegance. He is fist-bitingly sexy. His handshake is gentle and warm, his name is Miles. There’s a bewitching hint of grey at his temples, and she is suddenly swooning, and damning everything all to hell.

She can’t honestly believe she heard herself ask if he was here alone, but she hears the words come from someone that sounds a lot like her. He nods, and says he’s there ‘on conference’, the way that well-to-do Brits must put it, and the rest of his associates are at the Four Seasons.

“I’m set to give a lecture come morning, and tonight… I just needed a bit of breathing room.”

“Pressures at work?” She asks. He nods and releases a puff of smoke from one of her borrowed cigarettes.

“Comes with the terri’try, I suppose. I’m the head of my department at university. I’m expected to have allll the answers,” he cracks, with a wide sweep of his arm.

She chuffs. “That’s interesting. Lately I feel like I have no answers, only questions. But I think I understand.”

Their eyes meet again, and the air around them is suddenly charged. Not sexual, really, but a kind of understanding, a kinship is formed, and she’s now more drawn to him than ever. She feels brazenly without filter.

“Do men like you, with answers, I mean, does that power ever become a burden?”

“It absolutely does. Yes.”

She surveys the room, nodding. “Well I can assure you, Miles. Being without them can weigh on you just as well.”

He’s watching her still, even as she refuses to return his gaze.

“Can I help?”

That catches her attention. His eyes are crinkled with scrutiny, but something else, something familiar radiates behind the humor. Ah, yes. She recognizes it now. Need. Naked and thinly veiled behind his offer.

“Yes,” she answers, with a Mona Lisa smile, “yes, I think maybe you can.” He gracefully signals the barkeep, and she stands to gather her jacket and purse. 

————————————————-

She shivers as he closes the door to his room, and she chalks it up to the ancient overactive air conditioner by the window, and not her nerves. Like the gentlemen she expects him to be, though, he adjusts the setting before relieving himself of his own jacket, and walks to stand before her. But God, he is striking, and mysterious and reserved in a way that intimidates, and in turn, arouses her. And something about the scent of the cheap furnishings and the last traces of his expensive cologne is intoxicating in an illicit, tawdry sort of way. This feels like an affair. This stranger’s body she’s been inhabiting for the last few months now is behaving like the old Dana would, unmercifully enraptured by an older, powerful man. 

“Tell me what I can do,” he says gently, and she’s swept up on a wave of supremecy. 

“Take off your clothes,” she orders, softly but firmly, as she begins to relieve herself of her own, “and get on your knees.” His eyes flash brightly and he obeys, an eager supplicant. The slightest sway of her pelvis toward his mouth is all the command he needs, and his tongue snakes between her thighs, smoothly traces her outer folds, seeking entrance. She presses her hand to the back of his head and he growls into her in response. She can see him growing long and thick and hard between his legs, purely on the taste of her. Her voice is husky with want, and the air is saturated with pheromones.

“Make me come.” 

And he does. Using long, deft fingers and a dexterous tongue he suckles and strokes with perfect pressure, an even rhythm, until the one leg she has thrown over his broad back becomes two, and she’s lying back on the bed, watching herself thrash and moan from far, far above her body, this dark god of a man at her mercy.

He laps at her gently, bringing her down from orgasm with incredible tenderness. His beard is soaked and glistening when he looks up, and she decides she’s not done with him yet. 

“Lie on the bed, now.”

He wordlessly rises, licks his lips, and nods. When he settles, fully prostrate, she rises and stands next to the bed, admiring his form. Every inch of him is perfection. She wants to bite at his pebbled nipples, suckle at his mouth, capture the straining tendons at his neck between her teeth. He’s visibly, willfully, tortured, and true power is not without mercy.

If she were to straddle and face him, it would feel too intimate. Neither want connection, they want distraction. She wants to use him and he wants to be used. So she turns backwards and watches herself sink down, slowly, onto his dusky length in the dresser mirror. The woman before her is dominant, formidable, and she’s aching to come again. Her fingers slide down between her breasts, over her mons and past her little pink clit, fully engorged, stiff and eager. She finds their bodies’ joining, finds where he enters and his slick girth spreads her open, impaling her as she rises and falls. She brings shining fingers to her mouth and tastes their sex, rich and biting. He’s watching her reflection with wide, worshipful eyes. Dipping lower, her fingernails graze the tender underside of his sack, and the muscles in his legs ripple in anticipation, like a thoroughbred at the gate. He thrusts unconsciously and groans helplessly, “God!” and the succubus in her takes over. She growls, “Don’t you dare fucking move,” and starts to work herself ruthlessly, grinding him down and deep against her cervix, the sensation acute and exquisitely painful, over and over again. Her eyes never leave her reflection, even as she is open-mouthed and howling, her second orgasm consuming her like a brushfire, the intense, blazing heat flushing over her body. His own climax registers somewhere in the distance. 

————————————————————-

Her legs are trembling with exertion, an unnamed emotion bubbling it’s way to the surface. She collapses forward, sobbing, as a pair of warm, strong arms envelope her from behind.

“You are incredible,” he whispers, breathless, “a goddess…. now come here.” His commanding tone is softened by English r’s. The fight in her has gone, but he takes no advantage. He tucks her next to him under the thin comforter and tells her sternly, “Give yourself time to heal, girl. You have all the power you seek. Wield it as you wish. You have nothing to prove to anyone but yourself.” The last thing she thinks is how, in this moment, she does feel very much like a girl, newborn and guiltless and so very, very afraid again of what she does not know. What her mind won’t let her remember. For now though, she lets his warmth and his brawn shield her against the demons that beckon until dawn.

Come morning, on the pillow next to her, a vibrant, freshly picked violet is all that remains of him.

—————————————————————

A disheveled man sits in a parked car across the street from the Holiday Inn, two days worth of stubble coating his cheeks, eyes red rimmed and shifty. His body shakes, the indignant fury he felt previously now exhausted into fumes of guilt as he watches her come through the sliding doors, out to her car, and follows it as it drives away. She’s safe at least. She’s alive. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep this up.


End file.
